


A Shadow and A Blade

by SapphyreLily



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Military AU, hq secret valentines exchange 2017, more like samurai au oops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 10:21:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9718214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphyreLily/pseuds/SapphyreLily
Summary: Two sides of a coin. Differences pressed back to back, until their dissimilarities disappeared, and they worked together, an extension of each other.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reilix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reilix/gifts).



> This is my gift for Rei, for the Haikyuu!! Secret Valentines event! I took the prompts very liberally, I realise that now, and I'm sorry if it sucks, but I hope you like it!

He’s nervous – understandably so. They’ve given him the highest honour, the biggest privilege, and he’s not sure how to take it.

Of course he’ll do it – he’s only been waiting his whole life for such an opportunity, but it does not mean that he’s unafraid.

He takes a deep breath and pulls the flap to the tent aside, stepping inside with a deep inhale.

It’s only when the flap falls back into place that he notices it – a shadow, seated in the corner of the tent, illuminated by a single lamp placed not five feet from it. His weapon is out in a second, unsheathed and gleaming dully, sharpened point directed at it.

But as the seconds pass – one heartbeat, two – he realises how _odd_ the whole setup is. It is too neat, too tidy – a simply furnished room, devoid of anything but the most essential, and yet there is someone seated there, waiting. It looks unusual, looks suspicious, but most of all, it looks _intentional_.

Like the lamp was placed there specifically to bring attention to it, to draw his attention and his sword.

He jerks when the shadow stands, sword point following it, his feet shuffling to keep it in sight.

The shadow seems to tilt its head, and steps forward, so that the lamp illuminates its feet. “You are smarter than the others.”

“Who are you?” His voice remains steady, his blade unwavering. “What do you want?”

A light laugh, ringing jovially, but he can detect the undercurrent of malice in it. “Oh, Sawamura. It’s not what I _want_ , but what you will give _me._ ”

“I ask again: who are you?” He grits his teeth, determined, refusing to be cowed that somehow, this person _knows his name_.

Another laugh, and the person bends. He tenses, and suddenly, the lamp goes out.

He freezes, ears open and straining, trying to back away, back to the exit of the tent, out to freedom and possibly safety.

But there is a _cluck-cluck_ next to his ear, and his wrist is twisted, sword clattering to the ground even as he is forced to his knees, restrained.

“Oh, Sawamura,” it breathes, and he squirms away, because _this person is dangerous_ , but the shadow only chortles at his efforts.

“Sawamura,” it whispers again, and he feels its breath tickle his ear, light and airy, like a ghost. “We are going to be _very_ well acquainted.”

\-----

He pushes the tent flap aside, going straight for his desk and unrolling the map upon it.

There has been a breach, an unfamiliar enemy slipping through their ranks, and he is unnerved, because he cannot lose more of his men, not when they are so close to victory.

A lamp goes out in his peripheral vision, and he glances over his shoulder tiredly. “Suga, _please_. I do not have the time for games right now.”

“No?” His silver-haired companion emerges from the shadows, clothes inky and consuming in contrast to his locks. “I thought we always had time for games.”

“Well,” he amends, “For our sort of games, yes. Not so much for war, when my men are being slaughtered in their sleep.”

“Oh, _war_. That’s just another game.”

“Please help me?” He implores, eyes trying to follow his lithe figure as he slips in and out of the shadows. “The faster I find and dispose of this enemy, the longer we have for our usual games.”

“Hmm. Tempting.” He is suddenly by his side, a solid apparition, and he refuses to shudder as he had the many times he had startled him before. “But this is one of my type of games, and I don’t think you’ll find them so easily.”

“Your type of game?” He repeats, and Suga laughs.

“My type of game,” he smiles. “Not my people, I’m guessing, but another clan, working with the other side.”

It clicks then, what he is saying.

“Your type of people,” he breathes, and it all makes sense.

Shadows upon shadows, slipping through their ranks and leaving bodies in their wake. His best men, all with sliced throats in the morning, or some with bloated faces, clawing at their necks in their last throes of death.

Shadows.

“Ninja.”

“Nekoma,” Suga corrects, one corner of his mouth lifting. “We’re close enough to their village that they might have made an alliance with the opposing army.”

He gives him a wry smile, voice lilting with a joke, “Like Karasuno with us?”

“Indeed.” Arms slide around his neck, as he leans in to whisper. “But don’t repeat that. Your walls have ears, as do your men.”

He dances away, melting back into the shadows, drifting off without a second look. “I will have a look at the murders. If it is indeed _them_ , then I will have to call upon my clan.”

“Thank you.”

But he is gone, with only the tiniest flutter of the tent flap to show that he had been there before.

\-----

He finds them on the edge of the camp, planning their next strike, so he sits, and waits for them to notice him.

It is the small one – their mastermind, no doubt – who senses him first, but he catches the dart out of the air, twirling it as he regards them. “Now, now, is that any way to greet me?”

“Sugawara.” The small one murmurs, and his eyes gleam in the crescent moonlight.

He inclines his head just so, throwing the dart back at them, pinning their map to the ground. “I suggest you leave this army alone, and find another camp to attack.”

“We were given orders to decimate this one,” one of them snarls. “Why should we listen to you?”

“Tora,” the small one says, and the one who spoke slides closer to him, but his stance is still large, imposing.

The small one does not continue, but hums thoughtfully, tapping the map. “How long have you stood by this army?”

“My clan's agreement lasts until the last man of this army is dead by enemy hands. Samurai hands,” he adds, because the fierce one looks like he wants to begin his argument again.

“That is difficult,” the small one agrees. “Because we have been paid to take the lives of those in your army.”

“As a favour, then, between our people, to keep our peace,” he suggests. “You keep your techniques to yourself, and I keep mine. No external help for our armies; they can fight on equal ground, by samurai honour.”

“There is a catch in that.”

The silver-haired man smiles – a feral baring of teeth, because it is the truth, and he is pleased to have been called out.

“Of course.”

“External help shall be limited to knowledge and strategies,” the small one offers. “None of our weapons, or of our expertise in weaponry or poisoning.”

“You have my word.”

They bow sharply to each other, and he stands still until they disappear back into the shadows from whence they came, though the fierce one does not leave without a snarl.

He smiles at the empty land before him.

It is not a compromise; not really.

His army – Sawamura's army – has never fought with the aid of his clan before. They fight solely on the grounds of their own strength, and of the planning of their leader.

His army will win, and he will have nothing to do with its victory, as per usual.

\-----

Another hard day of fighting; another nightfall spent treating the injured and speaking with the men.

He is almost too tired for this – he wants it to end. He wants this war to end, to conclude, to stop entirely so that he can go home and have a nice long soak in the onsen.

Perhaps they are close to victory, but he does not know.

He hopes they are.

The healer smiles at the bandaged up man, speaking words of encouragement and of how to take care of his wound. He finishes up his own conversation, and excuses himself to his tent – he must go over the strategies again.

He steps into his tent, noting the darkness, and lifts the lamp he holds, moving to light those that are darkened.

But as he lights the first, he sees that two more have been lit, and by the time he reaches the second, there are no lamps left to light.

He stands still, as per his training, eyes roving slowly, waiting for a shadow to move.

And it does.

One peels away from the corner of his strategy table, skittering across the floor until it emerges, dashed with silver.

He relaxes then, exhaling his worry, the tension in his shoulders going out. “Suga.”

“Sawamura.” His silver shadow inclines his head, partly mocking, partly teasing. But a grin is slashed across his countenance, marring the mask, and he knows that this is a _fun_ game, and he has been invited to play.

But first things first.

“Did you investigate the missing men?” Not _murdered_ , not _dead_ , because he is right that his walls have ears – the guards patrolling his camp even more so.

The grin grows wider as the distance between them decreases, and Suga stands over his strategy map, shifting pieces for him to see.

He takes a tiny cluster of markers to perch on the outskirts of their camp, then moves them away, sliding across the map to a location he thought desolate, deserted. “There will be no more missing men, and no more subterfuge. The cause of their status has been redirected, and your men will fight refreshed and by the honour of their blades.”

It takes him several moments to understand what he is saying, though he has been playing this game for months.

_There will be no more deaths, but I cannot participate in any further spying for you. I found Nekoma, and sent them back – your men can rest easy._

_I will not be fighting with you. You are alone, defended only by the power of your sword._

He lets a small smile tilt his lips, lifting the main pieces on the map until they are arranged on the battlefield. “Very well. What do you think of this shape? Will it encompass the other side easily?”

Suga hums and reaches out, pushing and rearranging, pointing and explaining. “This form is better. These ants will slide through here after the first successful strike, opening a crack for others to swarm through.”

_I like your idea, but it can be improved. This formation will open holes in their ranks, and your men will be able to go through and attack their leader._

He nods slightly, conveying his understanding. Suga’s eyes glitter with pride and feral joy, and he places a few more pieces onto the map, suggesting a plan.

\-----

Victory is theirs, though they had to revert to old plans, secret plans that were made without a sound.

Of course Nekoma could predict their stratagems, no matter how many they made. He expects no less, not from the unprecedented Kings of Intelligence, but he isn’t one of his clan's best for nothing.

Still, the cost is heavy – war pays dearly.

He watches as the remaining men support each other, dragging exhausted limbs back to camp, where the healers wait with cool cloth and hot poultices. He observes Sawamura as he speaks with his leaders, devising a plan of action and of return.

He smiles, as he finally sees him coming, his steps heavy but not dragging, weighted by fatigue and not injury.

He does not drop from his vantage point, even when he sees the men reach their respective tents – he cannot, he is their sentry, and he must watch. He will keep watching, until he sees the red and black dust of Nekoma disappear completely, and then, and only then, will he leave his post, and return to his favourite game.

He grins a little to himself, and wonders if Sawamura knows how lucky he is.

\-----

They are close to home. So close, so close, but his men are dead on their feet, mouths dry, eyes vacant with delirium.

He tries to think of a way to motivate them, but comes back with none – what more can he say, when they all know that home is within reach?

But someone flits up to his side, keeping pace with his horse – silver dusted with the rust of battle and covered by the earth of the road. He tilts his head – he is so tired – and lets go of one side of the reins, fingers reaching blindly.

Suga smiles up at him – sunlight shining from beneath, and he cannot escape – touching his fingers briefly before he pulls something from his waist, sliding it into his hand.

He wraps his fingers around it – a cool, smooth surface, reminiscent of ceramic – turning his hand upwards, beholding the item.

A clear vial, with clear liquid slipping within, and he blinks at it for several long, long moments.

He meets Suga’s eyes, merriment touching tired hope, and the smallest nod makes him hold up his hand for a stop.

“There is water,” he tells his men. “Near us. We will drink and be restored, and return to our clan refreshed!”

They stare at him, disbelieving, and a light hand covering his is all the warning he has before someone swings up behind him, perching lightly on the saddle and declaring, “Northeast, two leagues from here. A clear stream, untouched by man and ready for your partaking.”

He pauses, looking at the sea of streaked, dirty faces, lined with hopelessness and exhaustion. “You do not know me, but will you follow your leader? Will you trust in him once more, to be revitalised and to wash the dirt from your bodies, before you return to your wives and children?”

The men stare at him, baleful gazes slowly emerging from the depths of their worn shells. But then their eyes alight on the dishevelled figure of their leader – ragged, blood-streaked, but still regal in their eyes. Heads begin to bow, before a cry goes up – and another, and another – until their ranks shake with approval and acknowledgement and support.

He tilts his gaze, catching Sawamura's tired grin; his eyes glimmer with thanks. He slips him a secret smile in return, and digs his heels into the horse’s flanks.

\-----

They are close – too close. He must leave.

But he cannot bear to do so without saying goodbye, even though it is unnecessary. Unnecessary because he was not meant to have forged such a strong bond, a bond of camaraderie and respect, something he had not expected from this mission.

Complete the mission; get paid and leave.

But he had made a friend.

A whisper behind him; but it is a rustling he is familiar with.

“Suga-san.”

“Kageyama.” He does not look, does not turn back, eyes still lazily roving over the camp – their last night before they reach their town.

There is no sound from behind him, but he can sense the uncertainty, read the hesitancy in the silence.

He smiles wryly to himself, a small, self-deprecating twist. “Do you think me weak?”

The silence is now spiced with shock, surprised laced in a sure widening of eyes. “You are never weak.”

He barks, a shot of bundled up emotions, exasperation wrapped in exhausted acceptance. “You say that, only because you do not see it.”

“But…”

“Kageyama,” he begins, half-turning, one eye still on the camp.

Movement catches his eye, and he pauses, expression dipping ever so slightly. A melting, a softening, a fondness for something, or someone.

By the time he turns to meet navy eyes, gone is the confusion, replaced by slight shock and wondrous understanding. “Suga-san–”

He holds up a hand, turns to face him fully. “If you do not say it, it is not true.”

His protégé looks confused again, opening his mouth to ask, but he cuts him off.

“Let us leave.”

\-----

He has waited – waited too long, standing still in the darkness of his tent – until the booming silence and the resignation in his heart confirms it.

He is gone.

He allows himself a wry smile as he goes about lighting the lamps by himself, wondering exactly when he got comfortable with the idea of a shadow sharing his living space – wondering when he had begun anticipating the not-so-quiet silence, the emptiness that holds a curious flicker of life.

When, exactly, did he get used to the idea of never quite being alone, despite being meant to be by himself?

He lights the last lamp, his breath making the flame flicker, and he stares at its wavering form wistfully.

It was a contract, he knew. An agreement – of mutual protection, of cohabitation until the war was over, until they returned victorious. A treaty – to protect their clan and their dwindling numbers, by sending their last adult, their most skilled practitioner.

He turns away, stumbling towards his bedroll, the glare of the flame a shadow behind closed lids.

But it is not what he seeks – the shadow he searches for is long gone.

\-----

He is given a house – a small but lavish place near the shogun, as thanks for his service. It makes him popular, though he doesn’t change his simple lifestyle, and people flock to him despite his determination to remain unseen.

“At this rate, I’ll have to cover my face every time I leave the house,” he grumbles to the shop owner, who laughs nervously.

“I’m sure it’s not so bad, Daichi-san–”

He fixes him with a sour look, and the man shrinks into himself.

He sighs morosely, staring glumly into his tea. “What I would give for this war to have never happened, and this popularity to have never occurred.”

“Now, I’m sure that’s not true.”

His head whips round too fast at the sound of that voice, and he clutches his neck, groaning. He can hear the shopkeeper fussing and panicking in the background, but his attention is fixed on a pair of weathered shoes, comfortable and worn-out.

He tilts his head up – with some difficulty, his neck aches – meeting merry brown eyes, and hair so silver it glimmers even in the dim light.

He exhales a word, combined in a breath of wonder, of amazement and shock.

The man in question cocks his head, smiling with his eyes, and shakes his head so slightly that he would have missed it if he didn’t know better.

The shopkeeper is looking between them, his fluster gone, cautious curiosity in place. “You two know each other?”

He wants to say yes, but the other beats him to it, replying with a chirpy smile. “Who does not know of Sawamura Daichi?”

He relaxes, a familiar exasperation working itself onto his face. _A game._

“But I do not know you.”

“No?” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head, a baleful look turned upon the shopkeeper. “Asahi, you did not mention me?”

“Ah– Uh– Well–” The shopkeeper is flustered again, and he nearly rolls his eyes.

“You are horrible.” A punch to the man's shoulder makes him flinch – both of them, but he thinks he is more shocked. But then silver shines as he turns back to him, finishing his movement with a graceful bow. “A pleasure to meet you, my lord. Sugawara Koushi, at your service.”

 _Koushi_ , he thinks, rolling the name in his mind, tasting the flavour of its syllabi. _A good name._

“There’s no need to call me ‘lord’,” he tells him. A common enough response, freely given out from the time he had returned and was bestowed such a title.

But the faintest of blushes colours his cheeks, slight pleasure from being addressed as such, derived from the lack of teasing or agenda hidden in his tone.

 _It is pleasant_ , he thinks. _Pleasant enough._

“But it is your title. It would be terribly rude of me to presume–”

“Suga.” His exasperation slips out, coloured with amusement, and it is only the second after his falter that he realises the damage. “Oh– I’m sorry– Forgive my brashness–”

Suga flushes as well – an act of false panic, of desperation to reassure. (He can tell it is such – his eyes sparkle with too much mirth, glee at having pulled the rug out from under him.) “No, no, it is fine– Call me however you like, my lord, it is only fair–”

“It was a slip of the tongue! Do forgive me, I swear I am not usually this rude to strangers–”

“But my lord–”

The shopkeeper is watching them like a soap opera, all horrified intrigue, but he never looks away.

He realises with each word exchanged that they are only furthering their trainwreck act, and it is only moments before they crash and burn.

Perhaps his desperation shows – or more likely, his companion is feeling a little sympathetic, maybe even compassionate – because Suga holds his hands up in defeat. No – a compromise.

“Why don’t we start over?” He suggests. “No titles, no honorifics.”

Brown eyes sparkle, and he feels a bead of sweat trace down the back of his neck. “As equals?”

“Yes.”

_He plays a dangerous game._

He can feel the bulging eyes of the shopkeeper upon him, and knows that his next words are a gamble, no matter how he chooses to reply.

He has been trapped – cornered and outmanoeuvred, so he slumps slightly; his admission of defeat.

A little straightening, a righting of posture before he bows, sincere words falling from wry lips, the introduction that they had been denied at their very first meeting.

“My name is Sawamura Daichi. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”


End file.
